Birth of the Cool
by Shenive-chan
Summary: The years from 1949 to 2009, and the music that makes America America. With lots of love mainly Russia/USSRxAmerica and UKxAmerica and variousxAmerica 'cause he loves to share his love.
1. Chapter 1

PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!

This series of stories follow a chronological timeline, and will refer to many historical events, and how the music of the times tie in with that. Yet, that does not mean every chapter is about something that follows the chapter before. That is, every chapter is about one particular day in one year, and they have no relation to each other, other than the things on the chapter happened the year after. Yeah.

MUSIC! Each chapter is named after a song (with credit to the creator/singer/interpreter) please look up these songs while reading the chapter. I know, it's annoying, but PLEASE! do so! It's a big part of this story for me, and they aren't bad at all, I swear. This story isn't a songfic, but they will relate to the ambience of the music of the year I am talking about. Believe me, it gets effing awesome during the 60's! and reallyn angsty during the 90's!

PAIRINGS! They will change, oh will they change. I personally LOVE USSR/RUSSIAXAMERICA but America likes many people throughout the years, so many times we will get other countries too, maybe the biggest one after USSR will be the UK and stuff. It's gonna be real sexy, trust me.

I will NOT shy away from drug use and societal problems. In fact, they will be a big part of the stories from the 60's and 70's era and stuff.

I do apologize for any historical mistakes. I don't know the exact time of when everything happened in the last 60 years, so please excuse that a bit. I can assure you though that everything within the chapter happened in the year I talk about, yet I don't know exact dates.

Some of these chapters will be long, others short. I have finals this week coming, so I might not update again 'til next friday. But I will try to update at the most weekly. If something comes up, please forgive my lateness.

I also apologize to my fans from the Naruto stories I have written. I'm kinda done with that series, it has disappointed me a bit. Really, I know, I'm sad. Haha, but if anyone wants to adopt any of my Naruto stories, then message me, and I'll be more than happy to help you with that.

This is my attempt at portraying an America that I believe had to grow up too quickly. I love Himaruya's work, but he mistakes America as too innocent sometimes, I think. America is a being that was kind of a runt before WWII and at the end of that war had to lead the world into modern life. It's like making a kid a king, and that can lead to some weird stuff. This is the kind of dilemma, this "leading of the world" stigma that America both loves and hates, that I want to portray in these stories.

Thank you for your time and enjoy!


	2. Move

**_Move_**

_Miles Davis_

_1949  
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The lights were romantically dim. That is, they lit just enough that the faces of each country could be seen with a beautiful sparkle to the eyes.

It was not too big, the gathering. Just all those that had signed the North Atlantic Treaty, which meant Europeans. And that meant England and France were in attendance. And of course, being bitchy and strangely elegant all at the same time towards one another. But America let it go, he was obviously better than either one of them (really, even combined, he was still better) and in too great a mood to have anything ruin the night.

Today they were celebrating their great alliance, as Denmark kept yelling over and over to Iceland by the bar America had set up at one end of his moderately large living room. The room was mostly used in those meetings between countries, those media opportunities, where they would sit in chairs facing one another and drink coffee or something the like, and pretend as if they loved being in each others company. There were light blue lightly cushioned chairs accompanied by small reading tables turned miniature dinner tables imported from France lining up the right and left wall from the entrance to the room. The wallpaper was a skin pale color with plant like designs all around in the blue of turquoise. The wood made thimp thump and clink clank sounds as the countries walked or danced around in the middle of the floor. Their movement had added to the rising heat of the room, and so the fireplace was off for the moment. The almost simple chandelier hung from the ceiling a little too high, as to afford the room a darker elegance than when the curtains to the two large windows on the right wall were drawn during the day.

All in all it was simple and nice, which is something America was getting tired of. As he looked but did not see over at Italy dragging some translucent like country with hair similar to France's over to dance. Yes, soon, he would change this room. Maybe tear down the fireplace, add to the living room, and make one wall entirely of glass. It was time to take this place from 1919 to 1949, a little more modern. Maybe change the wallpaper to some white or something. See, that sounded rich.

"You know, it can not be believed, but you did teach that bloody wanker a lesson." said England to America as he made to stand next to him and left a troubled Francis behind after referring to some nasty thing or another about World War II and what a failure he was at it.

"Of course, Iggy, I'm a hero, what else did you expect? Can't let those damn commies win. And they wont."

"Listen, America, I know you. You are a crazy git-face, but listen. Do not worry over this USSR so much. I hate the bastard as much as you do, but we have to see what he will do next. This type of thing, well, I am sure he is just waiting to get back at us now, over anything."

"I know I know I know. Right now we gotta get Germany back on his feet, you know? I mean, take control. This is why we are here right? This treaty stuff. Take care of each other, keep the russkies out, that's it. So lets make as if we like one another brit, and get partying!"

"That is something Angleterre can not do, but I am more than willing to handle." France slinked his side too close to America and England got red in the face.

"I can too, you git!"

"Stuffy old man, is England I say. His partying involves tea and facing one another to dance!" Denmark screamed off from the side, as he stood with the help of Norway and Sweden made to look away from him.

"What the bloody hell! Who asked you!? I can party!"

"Well then, if you can Iggy, would you like to dance?" America, whose little get up of the day involved a quite fashionable dark suit, with the coat flowing a bit too much, and so every movement was like watching a miniature dance, very Fred Astaire. His mischievous smile and blue eyes, that bed head blond hair, goddamn he was charming as all hell.

"We-well what are we going to dance to!?" Dammit France, dammit it all to hell.

All the countries were getting in on this, even Luxembourg, who was usually on the shy and quiet side, took the hands of Portugal to dance.

As America walked over to the real nice and big black phonograph he had off to the side somewhere, he said, "Well, I've been practicing some steps lately, getting into this new thing that Illinois and Louisiana seem to be real into, so lets dance to this!"

As he set the vinyl into the player, some crazy trumpeting started with an almost out of control drumming. "Ve~ what is this, America?"

"They call this Jazz, Italy. Guy is called Miles Davis. Some really strange good stuff here."

"How the hell do you dance this?" England was all terror.

"Don't know, really, just a little, I guess we can make it up as we go along yes? I mean, the name of the song is 'Move' so lets move!" said America as he grabbed England too close and started swinging him around. Everyone followed suit.

As the drums towards the middle of the song gave off what was like another random spurt of energy, America broke off from England and did some wild tap dancing, and then rejoined him for the chorus.

"You know, this guy says I'm cool." America spoke into England's ear.

"What does that mean, its pretty warm here" he flushed a bit.

"No no no, cool. Cool means awesome now. I'm cool now." America said as he spun England around again for the end of the song.

"Today is the birth of the cool!"


	3. How High the Moon

First of all, sorry for not updating, see I had a list of songs for all the years, and I forgot it at my dorm. So this may be the only chapter I make before I get back there and take a look at the list again.

PLEASE READ THIS! IT'S INTERESTING, I SWEAR.

Anyone playing Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2? Anyone following that story line? Wouldn't it make an awesome Hetalia fic? I mean, Russia invading the USA? And they even make it to their vital regions! Russians in the White House, I swear that would be a kinky fic. It writes itself! Yeah, I got the game, and it is awesome. America is so awesome, hooah!

Another story to write, if any British person is interested, is a story like this one, but a British version. I mean, you've got the beginnings of metal and punk in Britain, no? He's like, totally crazy on the inside, gentleman my ass. Which reminds me, I ain't no brit. No siree, I'm just a simple gal from Los Angeles, and I don't know shit about shit when it comes to most of Europe, nor do I care (a joke, a joke) so sorry if England or France or any froufrou from there sound US-ish. I'm just playing it by ear. Of course, as an American, Europe is fun to play with.

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**_How High the Moon_**

_Les Paul & Mary Ford_

_1951_

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"With all this bullshit in this country, I thought it was about time I step the hell out. Shoulda known the land of Korea would be just as fucked as Korea is."

"China, I am sure-"

"Don't talk to me about China! I help that bastard out during the war, and what does he do in return? Fuck Russia, that's what. If he wanted to get banged so bad, I would have left him with Japan."

"Well, do not worry. Well meet with the UN in New York, and work this out."

"I have a feeling we aren't going to 'work it out'. Anything involving the USSR doesn't work itself out." America looked out the large windows in his study, the moon was big and full and far tonight. He heard England clink around the whiskey at the other end of the room.

"That is probably the most true thing to ever come out of your mouth."

"Nah, it's just you finally started listening to me."

"There are times I wish I did not." England came close and patted him in the back, both staring up at the moon. Softly wafting through the crack opening of the door, soft guitar music played lightly into their ears, making America smile, "Somewhere there's music, how high the moon." he chuckled, and took a drink out of his own whiskey in his hand.

"I think at night, when its so far like it is now," America nodded towards the moon as he turned to face England, "If I had gotten to him sooner, then it would have been much different. Now I'm giving out death penalties in his name. Yup, it would have been much more different."

"Look, I think you are talking about Russia, and that arsehole, is well, an arsehole. Those years ago, when I heard you and Russia were cozy, I thought you were barmy. Bloody mad. I have been telling you this since god knows how long, but you are a very blinkered git anyways."

"Whatever you just said, I'm sure it made sense somewhere."

"Belt up, arsehole." England looked a little mad, but he tipped up anyways and slipped a kiss on America's lips.

"Tell me, Arthur, when was the last time we fucked?"

"Not fucked, made love. And it was probably two months ago."

"Don't act like a woman, it's sex. Too long ago, then, too long. I've been shooting off all on my lonesome in Korea."

"And here I thought you were having a bit of how's your father with Japan."

"I did once, and it was good enough, I suppose. He's a bit too calm and quiet for my tastes."

"And I am mad and loud enough for you?"

"Of course, England, all ways. That gentleman act of yours, pure bollocks, as you say."

"Well, fuck you, as you say."

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Somehow, and America could not remember what conversation had led to this, they were at some dance club dinner place, where the nickelodeon kept playing loud music through it's large golden speakers.

He was drinking like no tomorrow. And beside him so was England, whom was surrounded by young pretty porcelain things in tight dresses and bright red lipstick. They were cooing over and over about his accent, green eyes, and expensive suit. Did no one notice those huge eyebrows? They certainly distracted him from England's "beauty" the first time around.

He lit a cigarette and the smoke swirled around and upwards his body. It burned going in and out, but another drink from his beer soothed the feeling quite well. After thinking about communists all damn day everyday for the past year, he just wanted to drink and smoke and sleep his days away. Wake up and eat and think when it was over. But of course, just as Russia had promised back in Berlin, he'd make sure, whether America where near or far, he'd fuck him every day until one of them was limping so bad, there'd be no choice but to give in.

Yet they seemed to be in a bit of a tie and America as of recent was feeling far above normal physically. So maybe he could stand a couple of more fucks before Russia caved in.

Because America was sure, that is what would happen. He was better than the Europeans now, and with his new thermonuclear enhanced weapons, no one could give him lip anymore.

No one.

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Thank you to 15thburningfiddle and Martial artist-Mariko for reviewing! Sorry if this update is not up for your standards, please forgive me!

Please review? I kinda live off reviews, gives me an initiative to write more. So PLEASE!?


	4. Rock Around the Clock

Apologize for the wait, school has been tiring. I hope that this chapter is good enough for the drag... Also, this marks the beginning of the Rock and Roll era, as well as the Civil rights movement.

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**_Rock Around the Clock_**

_Bill Haley's Comets_

_1955_

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He had always known of this discrepancy, that being probably the best and worst word to apply to the situation. But as someone completely influenced by every single person that lived within him, he had everyone's opinion, which then filtered and became his personal opinion representative of all. The one that usually won out the most was the most popular stance at the time.

But once he has the oppressed also living within him, suffering within him, angry within him, that too makes him think of their opinion, and hence his own is in a constant change, stable and abrupt and contradictory. And he has been this way since the country was formed, in fact he had no recollection of stability within his own head, maybe a little after England took him in, but that didn't last very long, did it? And America thought, this must be the mind and the perception of a true republic.

He will admit that the he felt rather uncomfortable to be there, with those that were a part of him but did not look like him. He felt all sad, hopeful, angry, confused, mean, happy. He felt it all.

They all looked at him with a bit of awe and hate and hope that he come out of this accepting them all equally within his chest, within his being. America idly thought; would my skin color, my hair, my eyes, my body, change if I do? But he knew then that was southern white him talking, because he had accepted other groups before – albeit that it took quite a long time and it still wasn't perfect – and it had not changed him much other than mentally. Which means it probably changed him a lot.

Which was the rather strange irony, wasn't it? In all the talk of pureness of race, he wasn't pure anymore, was he? Sure he was made of beings that were (or considered themselves) to be pure. But when one is a being made of many beings, then one isn't pure anymore. One is something entirely new.

He thought about what all the other countries would say of this. They thought him rather stupid or ignorant of culture, didn't they? Well, sure, maybe most of the population was, but that didn't mean all, and if even one person was different from the common, that affected him too.

He is English. He is French. He is Irish. He is Italian. He is German. He is Russian. He is Chinese. He is Japanese. He is Filipino. He is Mexican. He is Cuban. He is Spanish. He is Native. He is Nigeria. He is Angolan. He is Congolese. He is different. He is America.

And they can fight and struggle and discriminate all they want within him, over anything: race, religion, ethnicity, class, gender, sex. Anything they goddamn well please, and tear his insides apart and his mind in pieces, but at the end they were still all inside, still all connected. They were all different and same.

There are battles done to differentiate, like his independence, the civil war. And then there are battles done to assimilate, like the southern black are doing now. Fights to break apart and fights to bring together. And of course, he wants both fights to prevail, because that is his nature.

Unless his nature changes too. Deep within his heart there is a pain that is comfortable and nice, a fight brewing in his stomach that seems to give him an energy he knew not he had. There is a change in his process of thought that is exhilarating. And everything is also the same, there is no pain, no brewing, no change. He wonders which will become him. He wonders which he wants to become him.

And while a rather portly man at the front speaks with a thunderous voice, with the sound of a thousand happinesses and sadnesses ringing in and out from his very core, about America, to America, oh! America himself is marveled and hopeful and hateful. And all their love and hate festers within him, creating him, changing him, loving him. He knows this feeling, he knows it and its power. Lincoln, America thinks, were it that you were here to see me again! Douglass! That your dreams of my beauty and mercy may now come true! How did you love me? How did you conceive my spirit and my being? How can all my ugliness be so beautiful to you? I've had not better loves!

The black girl next to him, dark thick hair pulled tightly into a braid, peach colored dress nicely cleaned and ironed, smelling of soap and earth and touching his hand so softly, looking into his eyes so reverently. How old is she? She stares at his too blue eyes with fascination and a giggle, with a love deeper than he has ever known. She has no true concept of nation, of what a nation is, but she knows he is beautiful and scary, and he is home.

He has seen into her and knows his true self.

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At the curb of a rather dingy street somewhere in Montgomery he sits next to a radio drinking a coke, listening to white man's version of black music being played, and it is catchy. There are black girls crowded near it, dancing with their little feet rather wildly, gyrating about in a way that's rather scandalous. But the music is a bit too strong to ignore and he gets up. Walks to them, and they stop dancing, just looking at him.

"Well, how do you rock around, hmm? Anyone care to teach me?" And they do.

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Thank you again for the reviews!

So, um, not to be rude or anything, but mind reviewing? THANKS!


	5. Walk the Line

Russia, or as we in the motherland say, the USSR will be appearing probably in two to three more chapters. As you can see, the 50's are giving way, and shits gonna go down son!

This was a quick update seeing as I wont be able to update 'till next week, maybe, so here ya go. Finals for me are in 2 weeks, so I wanna try and add one more chapter after this in order to tie all you lovelies over until spring break.

Thank you!

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_**Walk the Line**_

_Johnny Cash_

_1956_

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"MEDIC!" Anderson yelled beside him, looking down at his feet while waiting to see if his answer was called.

There they laid in their foxhole, freezing their balls off as their stomachs ate at themselves. America's last true meal had been about a month ago, and he was getting sick and tired of the goop that was served everyday, cooked inside their helmets. His head smelled of shit. He couldn't really feel his feet, his hands, his ears, and his nose, not even when he touched them. His eyes burned and he was tired of squinting towards the eastern front for a sight of any German soldier to shoot.

"What is it Anderson?" the medic picked up the tarp covering them and looked inside.

"Can't feel my legs sir, can't even get them up."

"Look, I told you to rub them, and to walk around from time to ti –"

"Walk around! That's rich Doc, just prance the hell around, and if I happen to meet so damn Nazi, ask him to join me for a walk, right?"

"Well, dammit Anderson, what the hell do you think I just did, coming over here? I walked! It's just as cold for them as it is for us, it's a damn stand off right now, so just get up and walk around!"

"I just told you I can't!"

"Your choice, Anderson. How 'bout you Sarge? How are ya holding up there?"

"Honestly Doc, can't feel my legs either, can't even feel my stomach anymore." America gave him a small grin as he patted his stomach, "But I think thats due less to the cold than it is to the mud we've been eating the past few days."

"Heh, I think you're right there, Sarge, I think you're right. All I can say is do what I told Anderson here."

"Right, just do what we've been doing this whole time in Europe, walk everywhere."

"You know Sarge, that's the irony here. Walk around Europe, get injured, walk around Europe, get cured. I just don't get these intellectual types!" Anderson picked up the tarp laying around, planning to cover himself and Jones with it, seeing as it was getting darker and darker.

"Give the Doc here a break. He ain't got supplies either. 'Sides, how many times has he saved your ass from trouble?"

"Psht, never liked Doc much." Anderson grinned at Doc, remembering the time he got shot in the ass down in Brecourt. Doc had been right there telling him, "Man, you're one lucky son of a bitch" after having survived two grenades only to come out with a bullet in his right butt-cheek.

"Do any of you have scissors? I lost mine." Doc said.

"Sorry, lost mine long ago. Go ask Cowboy, think he's got some."

"Thanks Sarge, do what I say Anderson!" Doc walked away.

"Even if I could lift my legs up, they'd just get stuck in all this damn snow..."

"Shut up Anderson, I need to sleep."

"Damn Sarge."

"Sargent Jones to you. Take first watch."

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America woke up when Anderson nudged him awake for his turn at watch. Yawning, he turned around and faced the darkness in front of him while Anderson settled back down into the foxhole to sleep in the slightly warmer tarp. He knocked out rather quickly. America grinned his way a bit when he heard him snoring, and wondered whether the Germans would shoot them down because of it.

The sky would be full of stars, he supposed, if it weren't for the snow lightly falling around everywhere, the tarp cover would have to be shaken soon in order to keep it from collapsing into their hole. He slightly shifted from one knee to another, well, he thought they were shifting but couldn't really look down to make sure. This he did until day break.

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"GET THE HELL OUT OF YOUR HOLES!"

"TAKE COVER!"

With a spurt both Anderson and America snapped out and started shooting towards the east, bombs dropping down every which way around them, how had they both fallen asleep and stayed asleep through this?

They didn't know which way they were running to other than to cover themselves up and shoot. America found Cowboy and Schmidt, "You two! Take cover, fucking move move!" he said as he approached them both, Schmidt more or less crouched and unmoving in his hole.

"Get fucking moving!" He grabbed Schmidt out of there as Anderson and Cowboy shot towards the east at the Germans. Just as he did, a bomb landed on the site, and threw them both a couple of feet away.

The ringing in America's ears covered all other sound, and he saw Doc run towards him, lips moving. He pushed Doc away and pointed at Schmidt, who was still unmoving on the ground. Then he got up and started shooting east as well.

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America woke up to his secretary gently shaking his shoulder, "Sir, sir, we have just gotten word that the boycott has ended, sir." He looked up at her dark eyes and and stood from his chair, "I'm sorry Emelie, didn't sleep too well last night. What's this about the boycott?"

"Remember sir, in Montgomery? It's ended, the court ruled it illegal to segregate, just announced."

"Oh, right, right. Well, that's good news. Hope Alabama doesn't throw too much of a fit over this one."

"Sir, you need anything?"

America looked at the stacks of paper piling up on his desk, "Yes, please, some coffee. And the radio on."

"Of course sir." She turned and reached for the large radio on the right wall, tuning into the most popular station, a country station.

"Thank you Emelie." She nodded and walked out.

America let the the rough sounds of Cash fill his nerves, relishing in that particularly soothing apathetic sad quality of voice that only he could ever achieve. The simple tune of the guitar was probably something he could learn to play, and he wondered whether Russia still played his after all these years.

"It wasn't easy to be true, was it Russia? In our way to Berlin, the line we walked was too tough for both you and I, right?" America thought to himself as Johnny Cash filled his heart with love and longing.

"What the fuck am I thinking of? I never made it to Berlin. Stupid red took that glory from me too."

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Thank you to Martial-Artist-Mariko, Verin Mystal, and NekoDoodle! You caring and reviewing for this story makes me want to make it that much more awesome for you all!

15thburningfiddle: I've played CoD World at War and the Modern Warfare series only on the 360. And Sincerely, I kinda get off on it, and I think America would too. Games based entirely off American military strength and awesomeness. I play them and think "who can beat America? Seriously?" Makes me sound weird, but they make you real patriotic. I remember telling my boyfriend as we were playing it together, "Oh no, the Russians are going to win, they're surrounding us." and he says "Hell no! I ain't learning to speak no Russian, Do svidanya bitches!" and we proceed to shoot our way out of the gulag. Yeah. Hahaha Tekken, you're right, Steve-Fox, oh! How right you are!

IMPORTANTE! READ! Пожалуйста Читайте! (I think)

America's flashback is concerning the battle of the Bulge, before Patton's 3rd army was able to back them up and bring in much needed supplies. It was one of the bloodiest and gruesome battles in WWII history and decisive part of the invasion of Germany. America would be hanging out with the 101st Airborne Division (still active) that went from the Normandy Invasion all the way to the bitter end (but yes, no Berlin.) The HBO series Band of Brothers is about E Company ("Easy" Company) within the 101st Airborne that I envisioned America fighting with.

Please review? I love you all so!


	6. Great Balls of Fire

Thank you for putting up with me! Finals were hard, but I got through. Here is an update!

**Please be forewarned:** that there might be some sensitive racial comments here. Nothing too harsh, but I will tell you now that this is just the very very tip. I am a minority in America, so I know very well how race relations account for a grand part of American history, and that is what I wish to portray it as; a fact of life. I do not endorse these sentiments, but they must be talked about in order for us to overcome.

**IF YOU ARE RUSSIAN!** Hi. American's weren't really nice to the Russians (and vice versa, I would say) but that was the way things rolled. Russia (the USSR) might come off as a villain here, but I do know that each side did their villainous things (don't worry, you will see America do terrible things too). And so therefore the perspectives of each country do give us a bias. All my readers should remember that the world isn't perfect or decidedly good and evil. It is mostly somewhere in between.

Also, my Russian, French, and German sucks balls. Sorry if I completely destroyed these languages. I haven't spoken French for years (or read or written it) so I've lost the practice. My friend speaks some German (starting her second year in the language) so I can only get basic help from her. Sadly, I have no Russian friends to help. I wrote this thinking "I need more Russian friends..." I had one, but he disappeared on me. And he was soo cute too... he went off to college in the east coast :(

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**_Great Balls of Fire_**

_as performed by: Jerry Lee Lewis_

_1957_

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What could America say to his boss in these times? Poor old man was sitting there in his great big leather chair, looking at America too seriously, and maybe almost sadly. America sat in a less grandiose chair on the other side of the presidential desk, staring straight back but not feeling too comfortable about it.

Eisenhower looked very sickly. Not that he was, probably wasn't sick at all. But America noticed that no matter how robust and young (relatively) his bosses came in, they always came out incredibly haggard, old, and withered looking. And it all seemed that America kept his youth magnificently, if it did not increase with every term. Except for that time... god Hoover really fucked up his face, he had ugly pimples and dark circles and wrinkles everywhere. Thank god Roosevelt came in when he did, cleaned up his face right good.

He shifted a bit, not removing his eyes from America, and smiled before saying, "You were always so much trouble. Harry always thought you were too much trouble. I would think that it couldn't be that bad, you were great in France, I thought he was being dramatic. But no, you are too much trouble. Tell me, where is it that you find the will to destroy my peace?"

"Sincerely, Ike," America crossed his legs and brought his arms up over his chair, stretching out a bit before settling them back down on his lap, "I try, you know, to keep it all together. I do. But there are just times when you gotta live it up! When you gotta take life by the... well, just live it, you know! I can't help that all my people are too rowdy for their own good."

Eisenhower chuckled and finally stared back down at his work again. He took out a pen from the drawer at the side of the desk and grabbed the first paper on the table to start his work, "Well, I suppose I can't blame you. I knew what you were like going in, all my life."

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After coming back from the White House, America took a quick shower. Soon his new favorite show was to come on, and he wanted to be nice and refreshed before he sat down to watch it. He supposed he could have invited some friends over to dance along with the music, but Ike left him a little bothered and thought it better to just relax and listen to some good rock an' roll.

Coming out of his room dressed in a plain white shirt and pants, he walked down the narrow stairs to the first floor of his house, drying his hair with a towel. He turned on the television as he passed into the living room, the floor lightly thumped with every step of his bare feet, the same tempo as the little gadget by the far window that kept beeping at a low steady pace. After setting the station, he went into the kitchen to grab some orange juice. He drank it straight from the glass container and set it back into the refrigerator. There was half a wrapped chocolate bar on the table and because of habit America grabbed it, opened it, and started to eat. If the war had taught him anything, it was to appreciate chocolate.

He walked back into the living room to sit down on his new Italian made sofa, little beep beep still going strong, and by now due to normality, left mostly ignored. Getting comfortable he propped his feet up on his expensive little French made coffee table.

"If you listen to Sputnik any longer you will go mad, Америка."

The chill that raced through his body was like the one he felt in Bastogne. Unnerving, unforgiving, and lethal. His action was numbed, he wanted to grab a hidden gun from under the sofa but felt frozen everywhere. All the slowness; his brains could have been splattered all over the floor, all over the little French table, blood all over the elegant Italian leather, and he would not have felt a thing. Would not have enough life left to realize that there would be no life left.

America knew that voice, that perfect "r" trill in his name, that precise pronunciation for every goddamn letter in a word, that serious undertone laced among the childish voice, and could only wonder, because he could not really move under the entire fear of it all, just how in the hell did he get inside? Were his aids not aware of who this man was? Did they not ask for his name? Did they not know that anyone with even a remotely Russian sounding name was persona non grata to him?

His limbs came to, his face he could now feel to have control over again. He removed the surprised look he knew he surely had plastered all over his mug to one of impassivity, of perfect tranquility. It would not do to be surprised by your enemy, even if you were. It would be best to look as if he were expecting the USSR to pop out to begin with, like he was expected over, like this was a thing he was prepared for. Let the ice emanating from behind him roll off. If America were to die, he would be dead by now. No, the USSR was here for something else.

"How are you inside? Who let you in?" America turned slowly, perhaps it was all a trick of the eye, an old sound stuck in his ear... but no it was not. There was Russ-- er the USSR in front of him, smiling quite charmingly, if not empty, seating himself next to America on the sofa, as America forgot about watching American Bandstand with the Sputnik beep like a metronome to the music in the background.

"This –" the USSR pointed to the television, "maybe my youth can appreciate, da? Dancing... but maybe work is better use of time. Американцы always carefree and dancing, how will you keep up with Soviets?" America could not help but feel that the USSR was also mocking his present predicament; so carefree was America that the most red of reds was inside his house sitting on his sofa, smiling.

"I'm glad that you worry about me so much, comrade!" America sneered at the use of the word, while scooting a bit partways from the USSR's knees, "but you know, when capitalism is the name of the trade, people can work and have fun without having to worry to keep up with anyone, it is in fact the other way around. Or will you say Mayak was a success?" He stood up on frozen legs and rounded the sofa a bit stiffly, pretending to be looking for some liquor to serve, but was actually trying to find a way to contact the CIA or something – there were secret buttons he had around for situations likes this. If he could not kick out the USSR were it not better then to record all the information before he left?

"Mayak? Oh, capitalist scum, you bring up Mayak? What if information got out, will it not – how do you say... endanger nuclear programs here?"

Finding the little radio recording button stuck to the roof of his liquor cabinet, America pressed the button and grabbed two bottles, one of vodka and the other of whiskey, and a glass. What was easier to do than loosen some tongues with alcohol? Whatever that damn Russ-- the USSR thought about him, he was rather smart when he wanted to be. His "whiskey" was nothing more than colored water, to keep him sober while offering other drinks to keep the guest drunk. Oh, he was rather genius when he wanted to be.

He set the vodka bottle down on the small coffee table between the sofa and the television in front of the USSR, knowing that big old Vanya was not the type to care for a glass if it really came down to it. It is not like America drank much vodka anyway, it was mostly kept around for diplomatic relations.

The USSR looked at the bottle and seemed rather surprised, "Stolichnaya? Were from?" he picked up the bottle and noticed it was new, unopened.

"Old Russian Jews. They still got a taste for your crap. And your language."

"Do they? Rather strange, as I am not very... lets say kind to Еврей."

"I know." America looked at him rather sharply and sat himself down as far away from the USSR as the sofa would allow. American Bandstand dancers were filling the television with a lot of smiles and twirling dresses. They were all kicking around their feet, bopping to "Great Balls of Fire" and America could not think a more apt song for the moment.

The USSR opened the bottle with a nice big pop and brought it up to his lips. He chugged a bit of it down before setting the bottle on the table, giving a contented sigh, "Maybe you are not lost cause, da? Maybe you come join Soviets some day?" the USSR gave another condescending smile (he never ran out of those).

"Pfft. What have you been thinking, old friend? Join you, was für eine dumme idee!" America took a drink, watching that smile turn upside down. The USSR hated when he was spoken to in German. And French just as much, "Je préfère mourir que d'être de nouveau avec vous."

"It is unpleasant to speak English, bastard language. We agree to not use other languages, da? I do not know if they settle well."

"Whatever." America sipped from colored water again, watching the dancers on screen finish up. The news was coming on, something small about Little Rock...

Holy shit! How could he forget!? He was supposed to help Ike with that one, no wonder Ike looked exasperated earlier today. Fuck! The damn commie was here now, it was best to not be too aggravated, but he was supposed to have finished that by today, be on his way to Arkansas to see that everything was more or less in order. This crap was serious.

"Listen, commie bastard that I hate with all of my heart, I need to get to work. I just remembered some important confidential stuff that needs to get looked at, and I can't very well have the enem– our most esteemed friend here looking over my shoulder while I do it. Enjoy the vodka, take it with you, hope you choke on it." America made to turn off the television and show the USSR the door (which the USSR probably had no idea were it was located, since he broke in...) but suddenly an amazingly large hand grabbed his arm before he could stand up to follow through on it all. Bastogne chill crawled up that hand. How could America at any point have loved settling into that cold hand? He had been a stupid youngster, too infatuated with the glamor and strength of older men. What was he but the USSR's old pedophile love interest? He was the Lolita to the USSR's Humbert Humbert. It was no wonder that Nobakov was a Russian in love with America.

"But, capitalist pig that I hate with all of my... self, I came for congratulations, personally from you. Friend to friend, for Sputnik. Will you not drink with me?"

America jerked his hand away from the strong grip, very painful, "Like I've said, worthless Russki, I've got more important crap to do than congratulate you for your nuclear can in space. Contrary to popular belief and your personal delight, you are not the entire source of my most aggravating problems."

"Ah! Could it be comrade that you speak about small problem with your Africans? How very strange that this problem came back, da?"

By now America was putting everything away while trying to figure out which way was best to forcibly remove the USSR from the premises with only small physical harm inflicted on his person. He knew that someone from those dark spy agencies was probably already listening in, wondering why the USSR would bother with knowing about his Afri– wait! How did he know about that? What did he mean by problem came back?

"What?" America responded back very smartly.

The USSR leaned back into the sofa, took another long swig from the Stolichnaya, and looked back up at the now still America, "I remember, back when you had more genius, that your Civil War was over something like this, da? Did you not come in tears to Vanya? You were reliable then."

And incredibly horny, America thought. He looked straight at those purple eyes, settled within a visage of strong features: the pointed nose that sat a bit out of place, the dark thick eyebrows, the rounded cheeks, thin lips. The USSR was all boyish strong masculinity, handsome only when one had been staring after a while and decided that if not for the angry eyes he looked like a kindly overworked but well fed business man.

To be called a business man, the USSR would kill America.

"It is better to not talk about those times. This time is not like that. Now leave, you have intruded upon my patience enough to warrant suspicion, if you breaking into my home was not enough to do so. I ask you to leave." America inched closer to the katana he had hanging off to the wall left of the television. An antique he had taken from Japan when he was in charge of that man's home. It was not as if Japan had anymore use for it anyway.

The USSR also noticed the katana and America's proximity to it, and his hand itched to take hold of his pipe and start a little fun. But his bosses had warned him now was not the time to start trouble. Once he was assured that there were internal problems brewing within America, he was to leave and report. Oh and what troubles they were! Surely tiny now, but they had the capability of becoming something big. As the USSR knew from experience, the people do not settle well into oppression. These new troubles were like a (super) late Christmas present for him; it was when America was divided that he was most fragile and vulnerable, the USSR had seen this first hand.

That done (for he only came to visit dear America because he missed the angry scared look on his face) he had no choice but to bid farewell to his most beloved enemy and ultimate prize, "Then I will leave, do not be angry. Maybe visit will help better security, da? The USSR is always helpful, now Америка knows there is no one watching window to your room. It is best place to come in. Appreciate my help." The USSR nodded, settled the little left of the vodka on the french coffee table. He stood and gave another harsh smile to America before turning and walking out of the living room, down the hall, opening the front door, and slamming it shut.

America ran to his window facing the front yard and noticed a black car coming to pick up the USSR just as he was visible on the sidewalk. This had been thoroughly planned. What was that bastard planning?

Why did the USSR remember the Civil War?

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READ!

Short? Yes, but just building up for the shitstorm that is to come. I think I'm making up the USSR involving itself with the early Civil Rights movements, or whether they were interested at all (they probably were). In the sixties these movements spawned many socialist movements and many militant groups whom the Soviets where probably really interested in, so I was trying to line this up. Could be that they weren't interested at all, but the United States Government readily feared that socialist groups would get together and overthrow the government during that time, no joke. They sent a lot of people to jail over this stuff.

I am interested in starting another story (don't know why, ain't even halfway through this one) called "The Wars of a Nation" revolving around America's wars: The Revolutionary War, War of 1812, the Mexican-American War, Civil War, the Spanish-American War, WWI, WWII, Korean War, Vietnam War, Desert Storm, Operation Enduring Freedom, and Iraqi Freedom. You know, for about 250 years as a country, the US has had a lot of wars, haha. You can unofficially thrown in the Cold war in there too. I plan to make two chapters (or three) on each, focusing on America as a soldier in each. If anyone is interested in co-authoring this with me, please say so in the reviews! I think there will be romance (after all, there are allies and enemies in war) maybe with various countries, or even with other Americans (I think Alfred would be horny for his own people sometimes).

So thank you for reading up to this point, and please review! Your comments make me look at my writing and see where I can fix it, what I can do to make it better.


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